LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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Shelf .JR1-3W 3 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE 



WATER-SPIRIT'S BRIDE 



OTHER POEMS 



Br f 

CHARLES J. BAYNE 



" Ah ! if we spent for heaven above 
But half the pains that we 
Spend night and day for woman's love, 
What angels we would be ! " 

—Tom Moore. 

"Our passions are jo3 r and grief, love and hatred, 
hope and fear."— Rasselas. 



NEW YORK 

JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 

1889 







?>*. 






Copyright, 1889, 

BY 

CHARLES J, BAYXE. 



TO 



MY LONG-NEGLECTED 



MOTHER. 



CONTENTS. 



Preface, - 


7 


The Water-Spirit's Bride, 


13 


Lines on Concluding Gibbon's ' ' Roman 




Empire,'' 


37 


Salona, ----- 


4; 


Discontent, - 


50 


Lines, ----- 


51 


Is it True that thy Heart is Another's ? 


52 


Earth's Angel, 


58 


Lines to a Pretty Girl, - 


61 


Forgetfulness, 


63 


My Book-Mark, - 


65 


Lines in an Album, - 


68 


Her Diary, - 


59 


When the Killdees Come, - 


;i 


Good-Xight !— It Must not be Good-Bye, 


73 


When Rome's Degenerate Legions, 


75 


Remind Thee Xot ! - 


80 



iv CONTENTS. 

A Violet-Gift, .... 82 

To My Friend, ... 83 

Insincerity, - - - 85 

When We Met, 87 

Farewell, - - - 91 

Lines, - - . - 94 

My Pen, 94 

My Study. Dedicated to F. L. Stanton, 97 

To Stanton, ... - 99 

The Vaults of Time, - - - 101 

Aristidcs' Farewell, - - 103 

The Last Sovereign, - - - 108 

Death's Mystic Spell, - 110 

Here Lay Me Down to Rest, - - 111 

To Miss W., - - 113 

Alas ! That Fateful HourHas Come, - 114 

To Little May, 116 



PREFACE. 



" He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 
snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 

Must look down on the hate of those 
below. ' ' — Childe Harold. 

It is with the spirit of these lines 
in my heart that I present this work 
to public candor. 

Although I am aware that the 
heinous crime of rushing into print 
will probably bring down all the 

7 



8 Preface. 

thunders of critical Jupiters upon my 
defenseless head, still I make no 
apologies for the crime. In these 
degenerate days, with doggerel at a 
premium and its grinders rich, such a 
thing would be out of place. To my 
mind, it is difficult to conceive a thing 
more nauseating than the lengthy 
extenuations of the faults which, 
customarily, writers so generously 
assume on their appearance before the 
public, bowing like a vassal to his 
baron, before the arbitrary forum of 
public opinion, as though "for their 
much speaking " those faults would 
be rendered less faulty or less appar- 
ent. 

Consequently I deviate from the 
beaten track, and follow the penchant 
of my own mind and judgment. 

In this independence I may be at 



; 



Preface. 9 

ror ; but, should the influences of 
my error be brought to bear against 
me, the sweet consciousness of having 
sacrificed none of the inborn princi- 
ples of my nature in order to gain the 
favorable arbitrament of the greatest 
of all tyrants, will at least be mine. 

There are many palliations which I 
might offer. 

The three years which yet inter-- 
vene between my age and my 
majority might be allowed to cover 
a multitude of literary sins. With 
life harassed by the necessity of 
supporting it much of the time by 
pursuits the most uncongenial to 
literature imaginable, and my leisure 
time only sufficient to bewilder me 
mth a glimpse of the golden apples 
)f Knowledge so relentlessly guarded 
by the dragon of Misfortune, it is no 



10 Preface. 

wonder if this volume teems with 
error. Indeed, much of the following 
work, and especially that which gives 
its name to the collection, was created 
during illnesses which, by a false 
economy, were doubtlessly prolonged 
by taxing a brain, already overtaxed, 
in utilizing the opportunities of 
thought thus presented. 

But I only say, "What's writ is 
writ." 

There have been promptings, 
too, which, perhaps, are not to be 
despised. 

That " Life is short" was the first 
aphorism of Hippocrates; "Art is 
long." the second. And he who 
would not prolong the one by the 
other — he who, a child of an eternal 
God, does not turn his talents toward 
the never-ending, must be morbid 



Preface. 1 1 

and unnatural. Men live again in 
their bequests to posterity. I have 
but followed out these facts in my 
efforts ; for, since death is sure, there 
can be no sweeter funeral hymn than 
that which Horace sang : " Non omnis 
moriar ! " 

These verses, too, have been the 
autobiography of my soul! Shall 
they die ? The children of my feel- 
ing ! Shall they perish? With the 
true instinct I answer : If so, let me 
perish with them. 

Again ; the mind that has been 
hampered by narrow circumstances 
and tantalized half to madness, by the 
prospect of beauties beyond, cannot 
but seek to raise itself into more con- 
genial atmosphere. In spirit, I have 
dwelt from my childhood in other 
lands and other times. Tully him- 



12 Preface. 

self could not tell how my soul has 
thrilled at his name, nor Kaphael paint 
my delight, could I behold " The 
Transfiguration." Shall I fold my 
hands ? 

But the promptings are immaterial 
with the public, so I do not plead 
them. 

I am no cynic, to be sure, snarling 
at the world, and insensible to what- 
ever favors it may bestow. Were 
these well-intended efforts well 
received, no heart could hold more 
gratitude than mine. But neither am 
I a suppliant. And whatever may 
be the judgment of my readers, I 
shall cherish the blest assurance that, 
having done the best my circumstance 
allowed, angels, indeed, could have 
done no more. 

Charles J. Bayne. 
Sandersville, Georgia, Feb, 15, 1889. 



THE WATEK-SPIKIT'S BRIDE. 



" I am for the air ; this night I'll spend 
Unto a dismal and a fatal end. 
Great business must be wrought ere noon ; 
Upon the corner of the moon 
There hangs a vaporous drop, profound ; 
I'll catch it ere it come to ground ; 
And that, distilled by magic sleights, 
Shall raise such artificial sprites, 
As, by the strength of their illusion, 
Shall draw him on to his confusion." 

— Shakspeare. 



Have ye learned of the rapture to 

weave in the brain 
All the host of imagining's glittering 
train, 
In their dazzling caparisons gaudily 

drest, 
With the trait of mysteriousness 
stamped on each breast ? 

13 



14 The Water -Spirit' } s Bride, 

Have ye learned ? — where but colors 

ideal remain, 
And but forms suiting fancy the 

weavers retain ? 
rapture indwelling ! bliss 

unexpressed ! 
With a heaven or these could we 

choose which were best ? — 
Where the ecstacy running along 

the bright crest 
Of the sunshiny thoughts is a 

stranger to rest ! — 
Where as free as the sky -lark, as 

sweet as its note, 
Is Conception invited through flowers 

to float ! 
Its unrivalled delight all who know 

may attest, 
And who know not may listen — no 

unwelcome guest — ■ 



The Water-Spirit' s Bride. 15 

To this echo of strains which proceed 

from the mist 
That encircles the region where 

thought-souls exist. 

II. 

Ten thousand lamps their blazing 

light 
Throw far and wide upon the night. 
The music of an hundred throats 
Upon the Southern breezes floats, 
While merry dancers' feet keep time 
To music's unaffected rhyme. 
The falcon of eternal Spring 
Has dropt a feather from its wing, 
Which falls where earth's initial 

morn 
Already seems to be re-born. 
The glare fantastically roves 
Among the branches of the groves. 



16 The Water*- Spirit's Bride. 

The full-faced moon would else bestow 
Its splendid light, but beams below 
In brilliantness so far outvie 
Its own, it fears to come too nigh. 
Fair faces, too, are blushing there, 
Kissed by the fragrant summer air ; 
While, like so many Graces, all, 
Linked hand in hand, pursue the ball. 
O vision of transcendent mirth ! 
Can such delight belong to earth ? 
Since man has sinned, is Eden's 

hoard 
Of pleasures here so near restored ? 
The crystal streams that flow between 
The verdant banks of flowered green 
Add their glad echoes of delight 
To swell the chorus of the night. 

III. 

But who is she amid that throng 
Of lightest step of sweetest song? — 



The Water-Spirit' s Bride. 17 

Who dances to those simple chords 
As though the pipe of Pan affords 
The inspiration ? and who sings 
Those Siren songs without their 

stings ? - 
Her striking brow, half hid from sight 
By wavy tresses of the night, 
Is high and broad, and — so it seems — 
Has never known — nay, had no 

dreams 
Of sorrow; though it gives no sign 
Of wanton revelry to line 
Its softness in the days not yet 
With furrows of a deep regret ; 
But seems to say, in silent tones, 
That all the realm which Pleasure 

owns 
Is not infested with a curse 
To follow when those joys disperse. 
Her eye— a peerless eye — is set 
Around with downy fringe of jet, 



18 The Water-Spirit's Bride. 

And shines as though the very flame 
Of iEtna burned from whence it 

came, 
When animated; and, reposing, 
Beams with the light of evening clos- 
ing. 
Its softness soothes ; its flames alarm, 
As though empowered to heal or 

harm. 
Her form, encircled with a dress 
Of inartistic carelessness, 
As light as robes with which the 

elves 
Are wont to clad their own light 

selves, 
Is fashioned in symmetric grace, 
And, elf-like, seems to tread on space. 

IV. 

Yes, who was she? But, ah! one 

knew. 
Her fingers silently withdrew 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 19 

From linking clasp on either hand, 
And, face by face, the crowd she 

scanned, 
To see if any marked her flight, 
Then, trembling with expectant fright, 
Passed unobserved beyond the host 
In revelry so much engrossed, 
And vanished in the darker shade 
The meeting moon and torch-light 

made. 

V. 

Ye who have felt the vital stream, 
Made warmer by the mutual beam 
Of love, go coursing through the 

veins, 
Know well how little love refrains. 
Too great his joy to feel her charms 
Once more reposing in his arms, 
And feel that head upon his breast 
Which there, and only there, found 

rest! 



20 The Water- Spirit's Bride. 

VI. 

11 'Tis death/' she wildly cried, " Leroy 
To be observed by her whose joy 
Would be unbounded to behold 
Thy form by Death's embrace made 

cold ; 
To know these lips, that press mine 

own, 
Were as the monumental stone 
White, cold and unpulsative grown; 
Whose jealous, heathenish delight 
To see my heart in widowed night. 
Hence, by the bliss which once has 

been, 
And by the hope of that to be, 
Speak low ; tempt not her murderous 

sin 
To fall — heavens! — to fall on 

thee! 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 21 

My sister ! — she it is whose hate 
Would have thee meet this awful 

fate, 
As terrible as that of those 
Who perished when the flood arose 
O'er all creation — since in thee 
Would perish all of earth to me — 
If but she knew that here beside 
This musically flowing tide, 
Away from pleasure-drunken brain, 
From all deceitfulness may feign, 
From senseless syllables that fall, 
All ineffectually, and pall — 
Entwined in mutual embrace, 
With heart to heart and face to face, 
We pass this while beneath these 

bowers 
In joy but felt by souls like ours. 
Ah! how her hand — perchance suc- 
ceeding — 
Would seek to set thy fond heart 
bleeding. 



22 The Water-Spirit's Bride. 

I fear her, for her eye at times 
Glares wildly, and I know that crimes 
Are darkling there 'gainst thee (and 

me); 
And oft, methinks, I all but see 
The purpose in her heart to spring 
And give thy spirit to its wing." 

VII. 

He looked up: in her face an air 
Which seemed, and yet was not, 

despair, 
Was set, but one which might be 

well 
So deemed, the shades so darkly fell ; 
But, softly as the morning breaks, 

As gently as the evening falls ; 
As sweetly as the mock-bird wakes 

The echo with his varied calls : 
Thus soft, sweet, gentle — yet, withal 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 23 

Full passionate — still in that thrall 
Whose bonds were never known to 

gall- 
Her troubled breast was soothed to 

rest 
By tones so tenderly expressed ! 
Yet still he stood, although the while 
Eevolving in himself a wile 
To foil that jealous heart's design 
Which sought to make his heart 

repine. 

VIII. 

A mischief-loving spirit rose 
One midnight from a soft repose 
Within his fair, his crystal cave 
Beneath the blue of ocean's wave ; 
And, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes, 
He raised his vision to the skies. 
The yellow moon was waning low 
Toward the western wave. "Ho ! ho ! " 



24 The Water-Spirit* $ Bride. 

Said he, "The full moon now declines, 
And I must play me, while it shines, 
Some game of which remembrance 

may 
Beguile the daylight hours away." 
His bright eyes twinkled with delight 
To see so favorable a night 
For spirit mischief. "Ah!" said he, 
"The moon was made for sprites like 

me." 
And as he lightly danced along 
The flowered shore, he sang a song 
Unearthly foreign, sweet and weird, 
Of spirit fear — though naught he 

feared — 
And hope and love; the pleasant 

strain 
Eeverberating over plain, 
O'er grassy mead and mountain steep, 
To break upon the distant deep. 



The W ater- Spirit' s Bride. 25 

The flowers growing at his feet 
He gathered now; and now beside 

Some stream he paused to catch the 
sweet, 
Harmonious flowing of its tide ; 

Then turned to watch the wavelets 
dance 

On moonlit ocean's fair expanse. 

The birds delighted him: on high 
He watched Polaris' circling train, 

While all the glories of that sky 
In turn beamed in his eye again. 

Thus carelessly he wandered on 

In childish glee: but think ye not 
His mischievous intent forgot, 

Or that too soon would come the 
dawn. 



26 The Water-Spirits Bride, 

IX. 

The songs which sweet- voiced mai- 
dens sang, 
So soft, harmonious and low, 
Like memories of the long ago 
When life was young and pulses 
sprang 
Convulsively in love's first glow, 
Came stealing through the moonlight 
mist; 
Across the meadows dank and dun ; 
Across the streamlet banks which, 
kissed 
By each benignly beaming sun, 
Had flecked themselves in bright 

array 
With flowers of a summer's day ; 
Across where field the woodland 

meets 
And young magnolias breathe their 
sweets ; 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 27 

Where saplings, in their infant pride, 
Their long-leafed tops wave side by 

side; 
Came stealing from the merry throng 
With charming influence along 
Where towering mountains calmly 

keep 
Their midnight vigils o'er the deep. 
Sharp ears (what ears doth mischief 

lend 
For wrongs which years cannot 

amend ! ) 
Bent low (alas! how low they bend 
Since Romans sold their throne away 
When Jul i anus whispered, " Pay ! ")* 
To catch that spirit of delight 
So softly breathed upon the night ; 

* One of the most remarkable incidents in all his- 
tory. Soon after the murder of Pertinax, the 
Roman world was sold at public auction, by the 
corrupt Praetorian guards, to Didius Julianus, a 
wealthy senator, for the sum of six thousand two 
hundred and fifty drachms (something over $600) to 
each member of the guard, then numbering about 
fifteen thousand. 



28 The Water-Spirit's Bride. 

And yet its strains as sweet as those 
Which from the four-and-fifty rose 
Beside the Tiber's banks, in prayer 
To Jupiter for signal care. 
And as the Water-spirit heard 
Those strains, his inmost being stirred 
With ecstacy, till, light as air, 
His feet were swiftly guided there. 
Amidst those votaries of glee 
Not one was happier than he; 
But, having run the rounds of song 
And dance, at length he left the 

throng, 
And, wandering idly through the 

wood 
Near by, his thoughts remote from 

good, 

No doubt, he caught the guarded tone 

Of lovers close at hand : as quick 

As thought he stood as still as stone, 

Resolving in his mind what trick 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 29 

Would best avail his purpose there. 
And then, again as light as air, 
Unseen, he perched among the boughs 
Above and listened to the vows 
Of love and constancy — the prayers 
For safety from all Hatred's snares. 
Then lower bent his ears, for more 
Suppressed, if could be, than before 
The lovers' tones were, as they 

planned 
The ruse for binding heart and hand. 
Their language (0 the task was hard 
To keep within discretion's guard!) 
Told how the miles which intervened 
Between their homes (both sweetly 

screened 
With climbing vines, while overhead 
The branching pines and oak trees 

spread 
Their sheltering arms) should be 

traversed 
On swiftest horses ; and rehearsed 



30 The Water- Spirit's Bride. 

Their signal and escape ; their flight 
To regions of serene delight. 
" Orion's hunt shall not be done 
To-morrow night ere we are one. 
Remember, love, the serenade 
Beneath the honeysuckle shade." 

X. 

They took their way. 

The Mischief smiled, 
And said, " The best have been 

beguiled. 
And you'll be ready ! So will I. 
Orion, some were born to lie." 



Tlie Water-Spirit** Bride. 31 

XI. 

1. 

"The rose and the jessamine long 
have been sleeping, 
O'ercome with the lullaby sung by 
the breeze, 
Which came with its faint odoriferous 
creeping 
To take a night's pleasure trip over 
the seas. 
But flower of the South! sweet 
perennial bloomer ! 
Unsafe is the peaceiulness which 
now is thine. 
Deep hatred is rankling with mortal 
ill-humor 
Against thee ; so fly, while ye may, 
and be mine. 



32 The Water-Spirit's Bride. 

2. 

" The stars are above us resplendently 
beaming, 
As though they were mutual rivals 
of light, 
Or conscious that under their rays 
thou art dreaming, 
And seek to dispel all the darkness 
of night. 
Bright star of my life, ever shedding 
benignly 
The light of thy countenance over 
my soul, 
Although none beside thee are fash- 
ioned divinely 
Enough for thy sisters, O m^ke me 
thy pole I" 

Was it the song some angel caught 
In heavenly dreams when, having 
played 
Himself asleep, unconscious thought 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 33 

Along the mystic harp-cords strayed, 
And, waking, played it o'er again 
Delighted at the glad refrain? 
Was it the midnight serenade 

The spheres were chanting to their 
God, 
Who in respective orbits bade 

Them take their courses at his nod ? 
The sleeping maiden opened wide 

Her eyes and listened, " Can it be 
The strains of mortals?" Then she 
cried, 
With sudden thought, " 'Tishe ! 'tis 
he!" 
And as she placed her tiny feet 

Upon the vines which seemed to 
grow 
As though accomplice to the cheat 

Enacted for another's woe, 
Between the strains the Mischief 
smiled, 



34 The Water- Spirit's Bride. 

And said, " The best have been be- 
guiled." 
11 The sweet honeysuckle has climbed 
to thy casement 
With stems plaited strongly, as 
though to invite 
Thy step to descend on its firm inter- 
lacement, 
And then with thy lover to hasten 
in flight. 
Among the magnolias and Cherokee 
roses, 
The green, sloping hillsides, and 
streamlets as sweet 
As those which a glimpse into heaven 
discloses, 
My home, with thy presence, will 
then be complete." 

XII. 

The music ceased. The Mischief 
smiled, 



The Water-Spirit's Bride. 35 

And said, "The best have been be- 
guiled.' 7 

XIII. 

" Ride hard, my men ; the moon is now 
Above the western mountain's brow ; 
And, ere it sets, our barques must be 
Well under way across the sea — 
The prize secured — to find somewhere 
A land released from constant care ; 
Where love may bow before its shrine 
Unmindful of a foe's design." 
The horsemen urged their foaming 

steed 
To quicken still their rapid speed, 
Till wood and valley echoed back 
The hoof-beats on the stony track. 
They climbed the hills and leaped the 

streams 
Like momentary meteor gleams. 
Still on and on they urged their way — 
Close racers with approaching day. 



36 The Water-Spirit's Bride. 

XIV. 

But what was that ? Was sight untrue ? 

Or did he catch a glimpse of her 
For whom, those weary hours through, 

His anxious heels had plied the spur, 
Borne from him in the strong embrace 
Of stranger arms at rapid pace ? 
And was he dreaming when he thought 
His own sweet serenade he caught? 

XV. 

" Eide hard, my men : that form of light 
With human seeming, takes his flight, 
And bears the prize away to be 
His captive underneath the sea. 
Look ! even now the Spirit stands 
Upon the sandy, wave-washed 

strands ! fl 
And, riding with impetuous speed, 
To depth nor current giving heed, 
They plunged. 



"Roman Empire." 37 

The sparkling, moon-lit waves 
Closed in and made their silent graves. 

XVI. 

The Mischief, seeing, blandly smiled, 
And said, " The best have been 

beguiled." 
Then underneath old ocean's tide 
The Water-spirit bore his bride. 



LTNES ON CONCLUDING GIB- 
BON'S "ROMAN EMPIRE." 

Where joy of freedom joins the fond 

regret 
Which breaking long communion 

will beget, 
How sweet to feel exhilaration's fire, 
Which with its own excess must 

else expire, 



38 "Roman Empire." 

Grow mildly sweet, like Leman's 
charge,* to feel 

The dampening hour of parting o'er it 
steal ! • 

Friends have been faithless: in the 
pure delight 

Engendered by their smiles, the ut- 
most height 

Of consummated hope I have attained, 

To find, alas ! their favor all was 
feigned ; 

Or that their soon-expiring memory 
willed 

Me but the passion which their 
charms instilled. 

But, ever faithful; patient in my 
moods, 

When in my heart were waging fac- 
tious feuds, 

* "My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are."— Prisoner of Chil- 
lon. 



u Roman Empire" 39 

Those pages, with their narratives 

profound, 
All care and restlessness have ever 

drowned. 
Once with a being formed as though 

the light 
Of morning had been stolen to invite 
Devotion's tribute — whom my child- 
hood strove 
To touch to kindred feelings with its 

love; 
Whom God had made — yes, human, 

but so fair 
That angel beauty nestled in her hair, 
And heavenly radiance lit with 

lovely grace 
The rounded softness of her smiling 

face — 
With her I lingered in that sweet 

suspense 
Which renders feeling but the more 

intense. 



40 "Roman Empire." 

When moon-light beamed upon us, 
and the rose 

Was startled o'er us, fitful, from re- 
pose 

By fragrant souths ; and, in the silvery 
light, 

Like Heshbon's pools * her eyes were 
beaming bright, 

The Faithful's gift then seemed I to 
employ 

To make a thousand years each 
moment's joy. f 

But change and desolation followed 

fast, 
And soon the vision, brief as fair, was 

past, 

* "Thy neck is as a tower of ivory; thine eyes 
like the fish pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath- 
rabbim."— Song of Solomon. 

t Mohammed held out to his hearers that in the 
heaven of the Faithful each moment of joy would 
be prolonged a thousand years, and their sensible 
powers of appreciation increased an hundred fold. 



"Roman Empire" 41 

With only Hope and Hope's twin 

sister, Prayer, 
To render sweet the Marah-founts % of 

Care. 
Back through long cycles of the 

burdened years 
A stately mistress, richly robed, ap- 
pears. 
Dominion is her throne, and in her 

hand 
The sceptre has become a wizard's 

wand. 
Linked empires are her footstool; 

sparkling gems 
Of wealth bestud her golden diadems; 

t"And when they came to Marah, they could not 
drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter; 
therefore the name of it was called Marah. And 
the people murmured against Moses saying: What 
sh 11 we drink? And lie cried unto the Lord ; and 
the Lord shewed him a tree, which, when he had cast 
into the waters, the waters were made sweet. M — 
Exodus, c. XV., v. 23-25. See also Dr. Olin's 
Travels in the Bast and notes to Milman's His- 
tory of the Jews. 



42 "Roman Empire." 

Strength girds, and Beauty on her 
beauty waits ; 

Her equals, none : her subjects, poten- 
tates. 

From her domain came both the gen- 
tle breeze 

Which bore the whisperings of acacia 
trees, 

And kissed her right cheek as she 
faced the morn 

(Her empire, too,) with fragrant 
odors born 

Of spice-groves ; and the ruder blasts 
that blew 

From where the wild Hercj'nian stal- 
warts grew 

In tacit thraldom, and the other 
chilled. 

She smiled, earth smiled ; she frowned, 
the world was stilled. 



"Roman Empire" 43 

But War, the scourge of empires, 
came that way 

When Winter's children sought per- 
petual May. 

Contagious Strife ! she breathed thy 
blight and died, 

Nor arms nor strength remedial aid 
supplied. 

In other times her golden eagles 
gazed 

With steady eye where suns of splen- 
dor blazed ; 

And, winging thither, in their talons 
bore 

Those dazzling trophies to their 
native shore ; 

In other times her armored legions 
spread 

Through trembling lands the conquer- 
ing soul of dread. 



44 "Roman Empire.'* 9 

At last she fell, time's gloried fulness 
come ! 

Her tale is sorrow, and her name is 
Home ! 
Proud pilgrims, wandering o'er 
those rubbished piles, 

Where the green creeper, half triumph- 
ant smiles, 

Go where, in influence, all together 
spring 

The mild authority that makes the 
king* 

And tyrant law — the sage and simple- 
ton 

In dust, in silence, half in memory, one, 

Grow poor in self to gather wealth 
aright 

And moralize their souls to humbler 
flight. 

*"Dans toute society soit des animaux, soit des 
homines, la violence tit les tyrans ; la douce autorite 
fait les rois"— Buffon, Histoire Naturelle. 



"Roman Empire" 45 

Thus have I seen, by each enchant- 
ing page, 
The necromancies of each teeming 

age 
Since Caesar ruled with rule, and all 

went well ; 
And there, even yet, my humbled 

soul must dwell. 
How strange that those of most 

immortal mind 
To their own immortality are blind ; 
And, Sampson-like, precipitate a fall 
On other heads which whelms them 

first of all ! 
Themselves the surest pledges of that 

great 
Eternity beyond this human state, 
The Truth their tongues as earnestly 

deny 
As their own minds the proof of 

Truth supply. 



46 "Roman Empire" 

But mind has ever been too deep for 

mind ; 
And who may say what others have 

designed ? 
There is a phrensy which attacks the 

brain 
And forces men, they know not why, 

to feign 
The wildest opposites to what they 

feel, 
And cherish most the truth they 

most conceal. 
So, oft, perhaps, his mighty heart, 

which burned 
With love of grandeur, truth and 

greatness, turned, 
When fancy wearied of the wreck it 

trod, 
Toward the empire of eternal God ! 



Salona. 47 

SALONA. 

I turn from Eome and her attend- 
ant train 

Of bloody-handed breakers of that 
peace 

Which they pretended ever to main- 
tain: 

I close mine eyes, for blood and 
blood and blood, 

Conspiracy, Distortion — grim increase 

Of wedded Power and Luxury, — 
bedim 

Their vision : Ahriman, it seems; 
would throw 

The might given for twelve thousand 
years of woe 

Into two centuries and crush the 
Good 

Despite that other end allotted him.* 

* In the Zoroastrian religion, according to the 
Zendavesta, Ahriman, the principle of Evil, shall 
contend against Ormuzd, the principle of Good, 



48 Salona. 

\ 
I turn ; yes, turn, and close these 

burning eyes 
For opening under more auspicious 

skies. 
Lo! yonder where Salona was — not &, 
For the Dalmatian's gods are gone 

and God 
(Our God,) is there ! — the boundary 

towers rise. 
Within the Golden Gate, no whims 

but his 
Prevailing, Diocletian lived : the sod 
Whose taxes he had lately fixed, he 

tilled 
And sowed, and watched the spring- 
tide swallows build. 

during twelve thousand years, for the supremacy ; 
but " at the resurrection of the dead, " says Guizot, 
"he will be entirely defeated by Ormuzd, his power 
will be entirely destroyed, his kingdom overthrown 
to its foundations; he will himself be purified in 
torrents of melting metal ; he will change his heart 
and his will, become holy, heavenly, establish in 
his dominions the law and word of Ormuzd, uniting 
himself with him in everlasting friendship, and both 
will sing hymns in honor of the Great Eternal." 



Salona. 49 

Tragutium yielded up its wealth of 

stone 
To build his vasty palace, that alone 
From hollow flatteries of imperial 

state 
He might remain impregnable to 

hate. 
His sword, which fiercest foeman 

could not brook, 
Had been transformed into the shep- 
herd's crook. 
Beside the rippling Hyader, when days 
Were warm, he sat, and watched 

the speckled trout, 
Which, like so many children, in the 

rays 
Of golden sunlight gaily frisked 

about. 
Salona, blest retreat, where is thy lord ? 
No : not destroyed by Alemannic 

horde ; 



50 Discontent. 

No victim of some Persian host's sur- 
prise, 

But, by their conqueror, too, he, van- 
quished, lies ; 

And, in the dust of ages that are not, 

His royal clay now shares a common 
lot. 



DISCONTENT. 

I SIGHED for a desolate island 

Where none might intrude on my 
dreams — 
Where hours all alone I might while 
and 
Alone pace the banks of its streams. 

I found me the desolate island ; 

But there all unquiet I dreamed. 
The hours were too lonely to while 
and 
I sighed till gone days were re- 
deemed. 



Lines. 5 1 

LINES. 

A liquid mirror, laughing rill, 
Goes dancing onward, never still, 
Through blossom-covered banks until 
The silent river ends its trill. 

With birds my requiem to sing ; 
A brook the only knell to ring, 
And floral offerings brought by Spring, 
Then death, though victor, has no 
sting. 



52 Is It True? 

IS IT TRUE THAT THY HEART 
IS ANOTHER'S? 



"I have been patient, let me be so yet; 
I have forgotten half I would forget, 
But it revives— Oh! would it were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forgot ! " 

—Lament of Tasso. 



Is it true that thy heart is another's? 
That thy breast, to mine own once 
allied, 
Now relentlessly, silently smothers 
That esteem, once my light and my 
pride ? 

Is it true that the sun of Affection, 
Which I saw gild the gates of the 
east, 
And, with hesitant, coy circumspec- 
tion, 
Ever rise as its ardor increased, 



Is It Truel 53 

Has at last reached its noontide of 
glory, 

And, alas ! now descends to the sea, 
To difuse, for its light transitory, 

An intensified gloom over me? 

When the night- winds of Sorrow 
swept o'er me — 
When my heart grew a -weary with 
care, 
How that sunlight of Love would 
restore me, 
And dispel all the clouds of Despair ! 

And, since life is so full of this sor- 
row, 
And so ceasless the storms of unrest, 
Can it be that no more I may borrow 
This nepenthe from thy loving 
breast ? 



54 Is It 2rue? 

Through the vista of days that are 
vanished 
There appears to my tear-bedimmed 
gaze 
Thy sweet image, whose fresh beauty 
banished 
My heart's coldness, and tuned it 
to praise. 

I again feel that tender devotion 
Which thy soft, modest graces 
awoke, 
When my heart's timid, nervous emo- 
tion 
Were the sole words embarrassment 
spoke. 

Ah ! how ceaselessly, wildly I blessed 
thee — 
Since the soul that is silent must 
feel— 



Is It True? 55 

Till, courageous with fear, I confessed 
the 
Fond esteem I no more could con- 
ceal. 

How supreme my delight as beside 
thee — 
While, a school-girl, thy cheek's 
ruddy glow 
Was half hid by thy sun-bonnet, 
tidy,— 
From the steepled old pile I would 
go! 

While the May-zephyrs loved at the 
flowers, 
And the brooks sought the breast 
of the sea ; 
Spring- enamored Earth built bridal 
bowers, 
Then I whispered my passion to 
thee. 



56 Is It True? 

Then maturer years came: still unal- 
tered, 
But in growth of my ardent desire, 
I lived on ; love matured, too, nor 
faltered 
While thy blessing remained unac- 
quired. 

Like the Faithful, I turned (though 
more often) 
To my Kaaba — thy spirit! — to 
pray: 
And my prayer ? — that God's sunlight 
would soften 
Thy dear heart to succumb to my 
sway. 

Then the diligent days found requital : 
How creation's sweet polytones rose 

In a sweeter, a grander recital 

Of delight than the loveless heart 
knows. 



Is It True? 57 

Then the love-tints of heaven grew 
purer, 
And more brightly the stars 
twinkled through, 
Till the universe blent an assurer 
Of Elysium to hearts that are true. 

Now, alas ! must it be that forever, 
Through the infinite years of the 
soul, 
With the pain of a fruitless endeavor, 

I no more may attain to that goal ? 

* 

While the JEons make love to the 
Ages, 
And Eternity smiles on their quest, 
Shall the heart, whose desire ne'er 
assuages, 

Be not filled ? Oh ! Perhaps it 

is best ! 



58 Earth's Angel. 

I have loved thee ; ( 'tis vain to 
remind thee ! ) 
And would live or would die for 
thee still ; 
But already this heart has resigned 
thee 
If resignment alone is thy will. 



EAKTH'S ANGEL. 



** Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of 
the earth? .... when the morning stars sang to- 
gether?"— Job, chap, xxxviii. 



When Eve was created in Paradise, 
she, 
Like all things surrounding, was 
fair to behold, 
Which seems unequivocally true 
when I see 
Thee fashioned so perfectly after 
her mould. 



Earth's Angel. 59 

But when I survey thee so nearly 
removed 
From all with which she was 
accursed for her crime, 
I forget how distressful that sinfulness 
proved, 
And those of her line reapproach to 
sublime. 



" O Eden, fair Eden, where now is thy 
bloom ? " * 
Though ages had held it since 
crushed from the earth, 
It issued again from the depths of the 
tomb, 
And opened in beauty in thee at 
thy birth. 

* "O Eden, fair Eden, where now is thy bloom? 
And where are the pure ones that wept o'er thy 

doom? 
Their plumes never brighten our shadowy skies, 
Their voices no more on earth's breezes arise.* 
—Mrs. Evans, Night in Eden. 



60 Earth's Angel 

The angelic harpers were chanting 
that day, 
As their strings flashed the light 
of the heavenly throne, 
So thy soul caught the charm, and a 
heavenly ray 
Beameth bright from thine eyes, 
while those tones are thine own. 

O surely that spirit is far from its 
home, 
Created of heaven, imbued with its 
light, 
And must sigh for the time when no 
longer 'twill roam, 
But, with eyes on the day, shall 
say, "Mortals, good-night ! " 



Lines to a Pretty Girl. 61 

LINES TO A PKETTY GIEL. 

[With a roseleaf from Virgil's tomb.] 

This withered remnant of a bloom 
Which flourished once on Virgil's 

tomb, 
Accept, dear girl, with my regards; 
And know, that, had this bard of 

bards 
Beheld thee in thy matchless charms, 
In vain to heroes and to arms 
lie would have sought to tune the 

lyre 
On which such deeds could but 

expire — 
Kevolting, like Anacreon's, 
At chanting deeds of mighty ones. * 

* " I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
• How heroes fought and nations fell ; 



But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone."— 
An4creon's Ode to his Lyre, Byron's Trans, 



62 Lines to a Pretty Girl. 

Kecurring but to love, which he 
Beheld most perfectly in thee. 
Although in this transported bloom 
I mark no delicate perfume, 
No graceful curvature and line 
To make its form seem half divine, 
Nor that exquisite coloring 
Of those which flush the cheeks of 

Spring ; 
Yet. as its faded tints I view, 
And withered form, its sacred hue 
Eecalls the mighty power and pride 
Of those who stemmed the ancient 

tide, 
When Trojans died that Troy might 

live, 
And sighed for other lives to give ; 
When glory bloomed on leafless stems 
And valor won its diadems, 
And, as around this loved, frail thing 
An hundred tender memories cling 



For getf illness. 63 

Of him above whose clay it grew 
Which shall survive its faintest hue ; 
So, though long since the poet's 

wreathes 
Are dead, of which this flowret 

breathes, 
Kemember him upon whose brow 
They once reposed, reposing now ; 
And hold this sweet memento dear 
To lay upon Affection's bier. 



FOKGETFULNESS. 

Sweet nymph of Lethe's deeply roll- 
ing stream, 
Whom love-lorn amoratas ever 
bless, 
Who makest all unkind events a 
dream, 
Maid of sincerity, Forgetfulness ! 



64 For getj ulness. 

Thou with thy garments fashioned of 
the night ; 
The poppy wreath upon thy noble 
brow ; 
The volume on whose pages thou shalt 
write 
The names of all whom time doth 
favor now ; 

'Tis sweet to know that when these 
rounds are run 
In grasping at delusive stars of 
fame, 
Thou shalt remain — the solitary 
one! — 
To solace me in disappointment's 
shame; 

To know that all which I should else 
regret. 
Of feet that faltered for too lofty 
heights, 



My Book-Mark. 65 

By thy congenial aid I shall forget, 
And brook the thought of future 
hopes and blights. 

Or, with no sad remembrance of the 
past, 
Of hope that flattering circum- 
stances gave, 
May turn my mind from earth's 
remorseless blast, 
And rest upon thy pillow in the 
grave, 



MY BOOK-MARK. 

Behold upon this fabric fair 

What wonders of the 'broider's art 

Her dainty hand, with deftness rare, 
Has woven for a constant heart I 

5 



66 My Book-Mark. 

Behold the richness of each strand 
Whose silent soul she made to 
speak 
By fashioning, with master hand, 
These fair-faced blooms with tinted 
cheek ! 

Did unstained Eden's flowery hoard, 
With all the freshness of the morn, 

A rival of the flowers afford 
Which this memorial adorn ? 

Its storied amaranth which fled 
The fall — was it immortal more 

Than these unsung creations, spread 
To mark the bounds in volumed 
lore ? 

No fleur-de-lis nor pe tailed sign 
Of Yorkists or Lancastrians 

Was ever prized like this design — 
More guarded by its partisans. 



My Book-Mark. 67 

Affection, fond affection, views 
The varied beauty blowing here, 

And turns to one who blooms in 
hues 
Which make her far a fairer peer. 

The beauty which her magic touch 
Has wrought, reminds — reminds 
alone ! 

Howe'er displayed, it were not such 
Transcendent beauty as her own. 

Sweet Destiny ! her hand has woven 
Herein the fate of my poor heart, 

Which, with her scissors sharp and 
cloven, 
Her sister cannot clip apart ! 



68 Lines in an Album. 

LINES IN AN ALBUM. 

In those realms of life eternal, 
Where angelic voices swell, 

Where the beams of light supernal 
In unbroken glory dwell ; 

Where the loved ones, gone before us, 
Join that great seraphic throng, 

Which recites the endless chorus, 
Dancing blissfully along; 

Where sweet streams of Life are 
threading 

Shady valleys of Content, 
Kissed by blossoms, ever shedding 

Perfumes through that orient,— 

There where none to dwell are fitter 
Who as yet its courts have trod, 

Rarest jewel ! may 7 st thou glitter 
In the galaxy of God ! 



Her Diary. 69 

Then my soul, its wings extending, 
Shall attain to that new birth — 

To that blending, never ending, 
Which my fancy deemed for earth. 



HER DIARY. 

If but the unrelenting Fates 

Would grant that I might lift the 
lid, 
And learn what tales that book 
relates, 
What gems within its bounds are 
hid— 
Those deathless treasures of the mind 
Her candid hand has stored away, 
As each succeeding day resigned 
The thoughts appointed to convey, 



70 Her Diary. 

Would all that true love prizes best 

Upon the sacred leaves be shown? 
Or, as with fair Pandora's chest, 

Would hope within be found alone ? 
Might I discern, with joy supreme, 

Responsive echoes to that heart 
Whose love her matchless beauty's 
beam 

Long since constrained it to impart ? 

When distance took her from my 
side, 
And hope half died in one fare- 
well, 
Was there one impulse to abide ? 
Those pages — those alone — may 
tell! 
There lie the secrets which the art 

And nature of the mind have long 
Besought her vainly to impart, 
To make my life a sigh or song. 



When the Killdees Come. 71 

may her constant spirit bless 

My life with pure and holy light, 
Until my love, with warm excess, 

Shall make our melted hearts unite ! 
Then to that journal kept on high 

Of human thoughts, of mortal 
deeds, 
Almighty God, when time rolls by, 

Shall turn, and bless us as he reads. 



WHEN THE KILLDEES COME. 

When the north winds sigh through 
the shivering pines 
And the last bee ceases to hum ; 
When the sickly sun half obscurely 

shines 
Through the clouds that make gray 
horizon lines, 
It is then that the killdees come. 



72 When the Killdees Come. 

Summer's life and light I will not 
deplore ; 
Vernal buds are joyous some ; 
But a flood-tide of thought from an 

unknown shore 
Cometh back, with a breath of the 
winters of yore, 
To my heart, when thekildees come. 

Dearest friend, ah ! still must I vainly 
yearn ? 
Must the silence ever be dumb ? 
Wilt thou not, while the lamps of 

existence burn, 
To my heart, with the joy of our youth 
return, 
Once again, when the killdees come? 



Good-Night 73 

GOOD-NIGHT!— IT MUST NOT 
BE GOOD-BYE. 



Good-xight ! — It must not be good- 
bye. 

Although the gloom of parting fall, 
Our spirits fain would prophesy 

A brighter meeting after all 
Has been fulfilled which needs must be 

Ere hope attain its perfect end, 
And calmly over thee and me 

Content its pinions shall extend. 

Good-night! — It must not be good- 
bye. 
My heart shall not forget its pole ; 
But, when temptation's storms are 
high, 
Unchanged, 'twill keep its firm con- 
trol. 



74 Good-Night. 

And, when the billows of affairs, 
Disturbed, shall cap themselves with 
foam, 

That heart shall turn amidst all cares 
To thee, and call thy heart its home. 

Good-night ! — It must not be good- 
bye, 
For hope is in our fond farewell ; 
And soon within that peerless eye, 
Where sistered love and beauty 
dwell, 
My own, with only such delight 
As separation lends, shall gaze, 
And view those graces which excite 
My changeless heart's impassioned 
praise. 

Good-night ! — It must not be good- 
bye. 

Creation's laws remain the same. 
The morning shall revivify 

Itself and reassert its claim j 



When Rome's Degenerate Legions. 75 

And though we meet no more on earth, 
Our kindred spirits shall arise 

Beyond a land where night has birth, 
And say, " Good-morning ! " in the 
skies. 



WHEN ROME'S DEGENERATE 
LEGIONS. 



"The prostrate South to the destroyer yields 

Her boasted titles and her golden fields ; 

With grim delight the brood of winter view 

A brighter day, and skies of azure hue : 

Scent the new fragrance of the opening rose, 

And quaff the pendant vintage as it grows."— GRAY. 



Whex Rome's degenerate legions, 
confident 
In the precarious truce their north- 
ern foes, 
Designedly, a little while had lent 
In order to destroy them in repose, 



7G When Rome's Degenerate Legions. 

Threw off the weighty armor which 
so bent 
Their enervated forms, their foemen 
rose, 

And, with their rude, barbaric imple- 
ments, 

Subverted Rome and smiled at her 
defence. 

The purpling hill-sides of the warmer 
clime, 
Which subjects of the seven-hilled 
mistress pruned, 
Gave up their vintage for the gleeing 
time, 
And, freely flowing, all their hearts 
attuned 
To songs, and nerved their arms to 
deeds, of crime. 
Rome's laws they with impunity 
impugned j 



When Rome's Degenerate Legions. 77 

And Woden's worshippers, with brand 

and dart, 
Defaced the Christians' sacred strides 

of art. 



Nor dared they raise a hand or voice to 

save 
The grace and greatness which emo- 
tionless, 
Those children of the Danube viewed ; 

nor gave 
To insult one reciprocal aggress. 
In Bravery's very cradle none were 

brave, 
But, when invasion they could not 

suppress, 
Applauded, to preserve, in guilt and 

shame, 
The lives which ill-deserved the 

Eoman name. 



78 When Rome's Degenerate Legions. 

And so, fair spirit of my infant verse, 
In whom the Graces with Minerva 

blend, 
Thou whose fond blessing, like the 

warning curse 
On Cain's existence ordered to 

attend, 
Has made all men to know me, since 

my worse 
Than listless soul that blessing bade 

ascend 
To heights undreamt of, or else 

vaguely deemed 
More lofty than mankind had ever 

dreamed — 

So, though this armor which about my 

heart 
Through night and day and seasons' 

change I wear, 
Grow heavy with the weight desires 

impart 



When Home's Degenerate Legions. 79 

Of other subjects, or with doubting 

care ; 
Yet do I know that never-equalled 

art 
Could not restore the groves and 

temples fair 
Love-built within my soul, if once its 

foes 
Should overcome the barriers that 

oppose. 



Such judgment as the zealous devotees 
Of god Osiris held, should be ful- 
filled 
If one thine image impious hands 
should seize : 
That other world, which love alone 
can build — 
More luminous than that the Maui- 
chees 



80 Remind Tliee Not. 

Have made their better principle to 

giid- 

Would lapse into primeval gloom 

again 
And chaos reassume an arch al reign. 



EEMIND THEE NOT ! 

Eemind thee not that in an hour 
When better judgment lost its hold, 

My earnest tongue's persuasive power 
Made thee the secret truth unfold ? 



Eemind thee not that when thy heart 
Compassionately heard me plead, 

It deigned its feelings to impart 
When it were cruel not to heed? 



Remind Tliee Not. 81 

Eemind tliee not? Well dost thou 
know 
That whatsoever brings regret 
To thee, I willingly forego — 

And more :— would help thee to 
forget. 

But when, amazed that such can be, 

I think how doubly blest am I 
To be even lightly loved by thee 

Whose pity had been meed too high, 
In vain my overflowing heart 

Attempts its feelings to control — 
And oft when words refuse to start 

Has silence wrecked the sickened 
soul. 

So, if in some too-ardent mood 

My love, which fain would speak 
and live, 

Remind thee, in its gratitude, 

Of thine, I only pray, "Forgive I" 

6 



82 A Violet Gift 

A VIOLET-GIFT. 

From perennial Spring's dominions 
Of transcendent light and gladness, 
By her presence made more 
bloom v, 
Sweets! I welcome thee whose pin- 
ions 
Bear remembrance, break this sad- 
ness, 
And make life itself less gloomy. 

Though thy leaves, already fading, 
Pass away, thou still shalt flourish 
In unfailing recollection 
While her image, all-pervading, 
With my constancy to nourish, 
Blossoms in this soul's affection. 



To My Friend. 83 

TO MY FRIEND. 

Should all the Muses concentrate 
Their powers to aid my feeble 
strain, 

If half thy charms they- would relate, 
Their efforts must be all in vain. 

For when the purest attributes 
Of nature, one and all, unite 

To form one being, who disputes 
That song cannot those charms 
recite ? 

Since friendship bound its silver 
chain 
Around our hearts with steadfast 
hold, 
Its links from thee have known no 
stain, 
But love has rather made them 



84 To My Friend. 

A cynic of the Eoman school 

Once wished that heaven had 
designed, 

In wisdom, some Utopian rule 
To do away with womankind. * 

But had he seen thee, friend of mine, 

And known thy goodness as I 

know, 

He must have blest the wise design 

That fixed such souls as thine 

below. 

"When coming years shall pass away, 
And other hearts are weaned from 
thine, 

Look back upon the past and say 
One heart is true, and that is mine. 

*"Metellus Numidicus, the censor, acknowl- 
edged to the Roman people, in a public oration, 
that, had kind nature allowed us to exist without 
the help of women, we should be delivered from a 
very troublesome companion ; and he could recom- 
mend matrimony only as the sacrifice of private 
pleasure to public duty."— Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall, chap. VI., note 64, 



Insincerity. S5 

INSINCEKITY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Wrong it were to thus deceive thee; 
Sad indeed it were to grieve thee ; 
Sadder still 'tis now to leave thee 

In thy desolate distress. 
But thy confidence is shaken 
In that soul which can awaken 
Nevermore the bosom taken 

To its insincere caress. 

Ah! could I recall those glances, 
Each of which, it seems, entrances 
But too well thy female fancies, 

Greater bliss had been endowed. 
Thy sad heart would cease repining 
For that mystic silver lining, 
Which thy longing's vague divining 

Deemed behind life's frowning 
cloud. 



86 Insincerity. 

Let the waves of languid Lethe 
Koll around, above, beneath thee 
1 Till the power it bequeath thee 

To forget the futile past ; 
1 Till thy sad heart cease such throb- 
bing — 
From thine eye its lustre robbing — 
? Till thy weary spirit's sobbing 

Die upon the passing blast. 

Plunge, ah! plunge into the torrent 
From my unsafe rock, abhorrent; 
Haply down thy being's current 

Thou shalt find a safer rest. 
This, perchance, may prove a teacher 
Too severe for such a creature, 
Youthful shown by word and feature, 

But experience is best. 

Why I did it ? Ask the breezes, 
Each of which in winter teases, 
Or with summer fragrance pleases ; 



When We Met. 87 

They will ask and answer, "Why?" 
Ask the billows of the ocean, 
Tossing in their wild emotion, 
Type of wavering devotion ! 

They will answer with a sigh. 

Ask me why so insincerely 

Proved that soul which once so dearly 

Held thy life as something nearly 

Kindred to the souls on high ; 
And my answer, dear, will truly 
Be but that the heart unruly, 
When its brightness burns unduly, 

Self-consumed, at last must die. 



WHEN WE MET. 

'Tis Spring ; and with these charms 
untold 
Of bursting buds and tinted blooms, 
Which zephyrs' fairy hands unfold 
And rob of all their sweet per- 
fumes — 



88 When We Met. 

With this same warmth the vernal 
sun 

Shed when we met upon the green, 
Mv thoughts recur to thee, sweet one! 

And fain would linger on that scene. 

I see through memory's searching 
eye 

Thy nimble step, thy perfect grace ; 
The glories of an evening sky ; 

Thy flowing hair and glowing face. 

And by the emerald array 

Now habited by shrub and tree, 

Transported to that meeting day, 
My thoughts, dear girl, recur to 
thee. 

If I some pleasing strain have sung — 
For seeing thee I could but sing ! — 

It was as these soft buds have sprung 
To meet the warm caress of Spring, 



When We Met. 89 

For when thy sunny eyes diffused 
Their light upon my tuneless heart, 

To such refulgence all unused, 
I felt the silent harp-chords start. 



And should that meeting terminate 
In ties, twin sister of my soul ! 

Which shall remain inviolate 

When spheres and planets cease to 
roll;— 



Be re-united in that world 

Where all is perfect, endless love; 
Long after earthly love is furled 

To open in the courts above — * 

* u The flame that late my heart consumed, 
Whose sparks I cherish and conceal, 

(s quenched on earth, but reillumed 
In heaven— in radiant pomp to wheel 

Amid those other lights which there 

Perpetual bliss and glory share. 

Tasso: Wiffins' Trans. 



90 When We Met. 

What then were plaudits of mankind ? 
What might the praise of earth 
endow? 
Or proudest wreaths which mortals 
twined 
To place on my then- worthy- 
brow? 

Their flattery I could all ignore ; 

Their senseless laurels cast aside. 
To know, that I, forever more, 

Should be of thee the love and 
pride. 

Eemember me ; and if some seed 
Of friendship slumbers in thy breast, 

Care for it well ; its fibers feed, 

Until 'tis love — the last, the best ! 



Farewell. 91 

FAREWELL. 

"Farewell ! a word that roust be, and hath been— 
A sound which makes us linger :— yet farewell ! " 

—Childe Harold. 

Though nothing else should lead 
me on 

To that celestial clime, 
To which my truest friends are gone, 

Beyond the bounds of time — 

Though all the endless love and rest 

Which denizens enjoy 
In that sweet region of the blest, 

Should not my thought employ; 

This, this alone, would bind my heart 
To Heaven's transcendent shore, 

To know that then we need not part ; 
No ; never, never more. 

[, who have seen my star of hope, 
Which once at zenith burned, 

Decline beyond the western slope 
When from some face I turned, 



92 Farewell 

Cannot but seek sometime to dwell 

In that eternal place 
Where I shall never say farewell 

And need not miss your face. 

Farewell! We two who hope to meet 

Beyond the turbid tide 
Which rolleth at Almighty's feet 

May never meet this side. 

But grant me this, my earnest prayer : 
When greatest distance parts, 

Then may we, fairest of the fair ! 
Dwell closest in our hearts. 

'Tis sad to say farewell to thee 
Whom I have loved so long ; 

And sorrow even now must be 
The burden of my song. 

As now the retrospective tide 
Of joys comes o'er my brain, 

In which I revelled at your side, 
Which may not come again — 



Farewell 93 

The times when you have checked 
my feet 

That else had gone astray — 
Your image rising pure and sweet 

To light another way — 

The moonlight on your noble brow, 
The sunlight on your hair, 

The starlight on your cheeks — all 
now 
Come back so fresh and fair. 

I see the snowy white costumes — 
• So far less pure than thee — 
And catch again the sweet perfumes 
Of blooms that bloomed for me. 

And, knowing that these are no more, 
Some sorrow needs must be ; 

But grant this respite, I implore : 
Sweet one! remember me. 



94 Lines. 

LINES. 

Written while between the graves of Richard Henry 
Wilde and Paul H. Hayne. 

Two children, weary with their toys, 

Here slumber side by side. 
And, while my loving heart employs 
Its praise, they wait awakening joys 
In realms where pleasure never cloys, 
In heaven glorified. 

Augusta, Ga., August 26, 1888. 



MY PEN. 



{Presented to the author by Paul H. Hayne, "with 
which," said he, " were written some of my best 
lyrics."] 

There is a temple in the East 
On which designers, gilders, 

And lapidaries had increased 
The glory of its builders. 



My Pen. 95 

Until its marble walls in air, 
Like fairy fabrics gleaming, 

Seemed to the pious kneelers there 
Created of their dreaming. 



But on Sophia's splendid dome — 

Its glories evanescent — 
The Christians cross has now become 

The Moslem's glittering crescent. 

And with the worshippers who bowed 

As orthodox confessors, 
The holy spell has fled the crowd 

Of Islam-bent possessors. 

So, relic of a mighty mind ! 

Thy spell no longer lingers ; 
Thy form alone could be resigned 

To these unsanctioned fingers. 



96 My Pen. 

And though I love thee for the skill 
Of him who once impelled thee, 

Such thoughts from thee no more 
distil 
As when the master held thee. 

O if thou in these hands couldest feel 

Some faint re visitations 
Of powers which, thrilling through 
thy steel, 

Infatuated nations ! — 

That thou couldst drink a fervent soul 
Exhaustless, pure and varied, 

And pour it out again to roll 
O'er hearts long parched and arid! 

Then would I lift thy strengthened 
powers 

Beyond ungrateful blindness 
To him in heaven's delightful bowers, 

And bless his love and kindness. 



My Study. 97 

MY STUDY. 

DEDICATED TO F. L. STANTON". 

The drooping honeysuckles spread, 
With carelessness and grace, 

Their fragrant branches round my 
head 
In this secluded place. 

I sit beside the myrtle trees, 

With roses at my right, 
While in the white syringa, bees 

Are taking their delight. 



The lily stalks and long spiraea 

Are nodding to and fro, 
Until the season of the year 

Shall come when they may blow. 



98 My Study. 

The Muses haunt this tamarisk shade . 

And here, in mid-day dreams, 
When on their harps their hands are 
laid, 

I ply my pensive themes. 

No bust of Sophocles looks down 

Upon me from a shelf — 
No Grecian sage, with knowing frown, 

Makes me disparage self. 

But here, with only those whose 
thought 

Engages mine to-day, 
I sit contented, caring naught, 

How " runs the world away." 

If amatory thoughts engage 

My fancy's lighest mood, 
No disapproving stoic sage 

Here ventures to intrude. 



To Stanton. 99 

Or, if awhile I choose to keep 
The poarch's callous creed 

And let my heart's emotions sleep, 
No vain polemics heed. 

And so within these study walls 

Of Nature's own design, 
I sweetly dream, when quiet falls, 

Of thee, sweetheart of mine ! 



TO STANTON. * 

Friend Stanton, lo ! these many days 
We've listened for your voice, 

But not a word from you we've heard 
To make our hearts rejoice. 

* The only explanation that I am prepared to offer 
for the appearance of these unusually weak lines 
here is the necessity of their reproduction in order 
to connectedly introduce the characteristic reply 
which they elicited from the truly gifted poet to 
whom they were addressed, F. L. Stanton, of Rome, 
Georgia. In this I am prompted partly by vanity, I 
confess, but partly, also, by a sincere desire to do 
homage, slight though it be, to his rising genius; 
and, like Gil Bias to old Doctor Sangrado, "Jg lui 
remerciai derrV avoir si promptement rendu capable 
de luiservir." 



100 To Stanton. 

Methought that when the leaves 
turned red 

Your song would surely come, 
But in your heart no strains yet start: 

Friend Stanton, are you dumb ? 

"You say I've ceased from singin', an' some sorrow 

you've expressed 
That my Muse is gittiu' lazy since I left the sweet 

southwest ; 
Well, maybe so, an' not so; we are best when we 

are brief; 
But the rose of song's a-bloomin', though the frost is 

on the leaf. 

I'll tell you why I'm silent, why I don't sing as of 
yore : 

'Taint because my harp is broken an' needs flxin' at 
the store ; 

But I'm kinder like a stranger to these towerin' 
hills of snow, 

An' my songs is gone before me where the south- 
land roses grow. 

I am always thinkin', thinkin' of the time that used 

to be, 
When the springs an' golden autumns flushed the 

friendly fields of Lee, 
An' as I look toward you in those far-off plains an' 

skies, 
The sun may be a-shinin', but it's rainin' round my 

eyes! 

Well! here's a greetin' to you: I am still within the 

ring, 
An' a-lovin', an' a-listenin' to the songs the others 

sing, 
But my harp, jes 1 for the present, is reposin' on the 

shelf, 
An' my heart makes all the music— but it keeps it to 

itself." 



Tlie Vaults of Time. 101 

We hear anon from Folsom's Muse : 
Sweet Dumas sings sometimes ; 

And, now and then, Sarge takes his 
pen 
To drop some limpid rhymes. 

But you — has Humor killed your 
Muse, 

So still she has become ? 
Or, worse than all that could befall, 

Friend Stanton, are you dumb ? 



THE VAULTS OF TIME. 

Those vaults of Time! what do 
they hold 
In their unmeasured amplitude ? 
Could their profundity unfold, 

What scenes by mortals would be 
viewed ? 
O that those portals were unrolled 
That human eye might once behold ! 



102 The Vaults of Time. 

A passing angel gave the key • 
And, opening those portals wide, 

I saw mankind in each degree, 

All dust— all dead— and side by 
side — 

The high, the low, the slave, the free, 

Commingled in mortality. 

The vanished ages that had died 
On weary wings were buried there; 

I saw the spectral shade of Pride ; 
Saw Hope resolved into Despair ; 

Souls in the silence they defied, 

And laurels, long since parched and 
dried. 

A fatal atmosphere prevailed ; 

Earth's freshest blooms had gone to 
dust ; 
All light had glimmered, waned and 
failed, 
And Love had come to be Disgust ; 



Aristides' Farewell. 103 

The flush of beauty had consumed 
The downy cheeks it once illumed. 

11 Ye remnants of all things that were, 
But are not ! tell me, if ye may, 

For all mankind's protracted stir 
And feverish anxiety, 

Is nothing here but death ? " I cried ; 

And echo answered, " Death ! " — and 
died. 



ARISTIDES' FAREWELL. 

" Then Aristides rears his honest front, 
Spotless of heart, to whom the unflattering voice 
Of freedom give the noblest name of Just." 

—Thomsons Seasons. 

Athens! since I soon must leave 
thee — 

Since each ostracising shell* 
Of those who would not believe me 

Bids me say my last farewell; 

*Gr. ostrakon— a shell, upon which the votes of 
ostracism were written. 



104 Aristides' Farewell. 

Seat of all my vanished glory ! 

Centre of my former pride ! 
Thou, for whom I, who adore thee, 

Willingly had lived or died ! 

Hear me ! for I still would save 
thee — 
Doomed to exile though I stand — . 
From their thralls who would enslave 
thee 
With a dire, relentless hand. 

Legions of the tyrant Persianf 
Whom Miltiades repulsed, 

Crouch now for their dread incursion, 
When all Greece shall be convulsed. 

Just beyond the crystal waters 
Of the Hellespont are they, 

Now preparing for the slaughters 
That shall dim an early day. 
fXerxes. 



Aristides' Farewell. 105 

When the battle cloud, that darkens 
O'er thee, shall in fury burst 

On thy heads, most noble archons ! 
With the thunders time has nursed, 



Ye must arm these waiting legions 
Strongly, for the common cause, 

That these favored native regions 
May retain their ownjust laws. 

Great Themistocles has told thee 
That thy armament would be — 

If the better sense controlled thee — 
Mighty fleets upon the sea. 

And of this would I address thee 
In my latest moments here, 

That the god of wars may bless thee 
When these enemies appear. 



106 Aristides' Farewell. 

Go ! convert thy marine powers 

Into soldiery, I pray ; 
Build ye fortresses and towers 

To withstand the coming fray, 



Arm them strongly ; concentrating 
Into land force all thy main, 

They may stand, the foe awaiting, 
In the Mountains, Vale and Plain. 

Then no tempest can destroy them ; 

Mutinies no more shall be ; 
Sirens 7 songs shall not decoy them ; 

Greece shall live and still be free ! 



This is all ; the sun to-morrow 
Shall behold me far away 

On my pilgrimage, in sorrow 
At the will of Greece to-day. 



Aristides 1 Farewell. 107 

O that this degeneration 

Ever should befall a land 
Which once held a noble nation, 

Boasting Justice, reigning hand ! 

Exile lands would seem less dreary, 
Since I soon must tread their dust, 

But for knowing thou art weary 
Of my being called the Just.* 

Athens of my infant gambols ! 

Athens of my childhood's day! 
Athens of mv manhood's rambles! 

Now adieu — for aye, for aye ! 



* Nepos, Plutarch, and other historians, relate 
that during this ostracism, brought about by Aris- 
tides' jealous rival, Themistocles, alarming the 
Athenians against the danger of the popularity 
Aristides was rapidly acquiring for strict justice, a 
voter, without knowing to whom he spoke, came up 
to Aristides, and, handing him his shell, requested 
him to write on it the name of Aristides. " The lat- 
ter asked, in surprise, if Aristides had done him any 
wrong. * No,' was the reply, 'and I do not even 
know him, but it irritates me to hear him every 
where called the just: Aristides made no reply, but 
took the shell and wrote his name on it." 



108 The Last Sovereign. 

THE LAST SOVEREIGN. 

[On the occasion of Victoria's Jubilee.] 

With tramp of royal horses' feet, 
Through loyal cries and drummer's 

beat, 
Where eager thousands line the street, 

Comes England's grand parade ; 
While representatives of earth 
Proclaim, with unrestricted mirth, 
Victoria's unrivalled worth, 

And hail the cavalcade. 

Profound old organs peal their notes 
Deep down in awe-inspiring throats, 
While loudly on the welkin floats 

A sweet " God save the Queen ! " 
All earth and sky have donned a dress 
Of unaccustomed loveliness, 
That they may honor her no less 

Who makes the gorgeous scene. 



The Last Sovereign. 109 

O heavens of transcendent blue ! 

O scene of royal retinue ! 

Behold, behold her passing through 

With whom the sceptre fades! 
Symphonious notes which, rising, bear 
Aloft the people's chanted prayer 
Will be no more when she shall share 

The common fate of shades. 

The regency that through the tears 
And blood of full nine hundred years 
Has held its sway, now slowly nears 

Its end — one life between. 
Yes, well may they rejoice, for men 
Shall soon arise, with tongue and pen, 
To chain dread Thraldom in its den, 

And ask no king or queen. 

June, 1888. 



110 Deaths Mystic Spell 

DEATH'S MYSTIC SPELL. 

At this silent midnight vigil, 
As I watch his fleeting breath, 

Solemn thoughts come o'er my spirit 
Of that mystic spell called Death. 

Tell me, aged seer of heaven ! — 
If in heaven age may be — 

Will those sloping strands of Jordan 
Be so wildly tossed for me ? 

Will those distant shores of glory 

Be so distant for my feet 
When the boundary of time and 

Of eternity shall meet ? 

Will it come at morn or evening? 

Be received as friend or foe? 
Come with anxious friends surround- 
ing 

Who discern life's feebling flow ? 



Here Lay Me Down To Rest. Ill 

Others, known, have been enshrouded 
In this spell and borne before, 

Who partook with me of being; 
When may I exist no more ? 

At this silent midnight vigil, 
As I watch his fleeting breath, 

Solemn thoughts come o'er my spirit 
Of that mystic spell called Death. 



HEEE LAY MB DOWN TO REST. 

" Men have that which they like more than life. " 

— Mencius. 

Where bending skies enclose a land 
Created by immortal hand 
With smiling favors such as none 
Beside may boast beneath the sun; 
Where the bright plumaged bird of 

Spring 
Forever waves its magic wing — 
Amidst these scenes our fathers blest, 
Here lay me down to rest. 



112 Here Lay Me Down To Rest 

Where perfume-laden winds awake 
The silvery waves of stream and lake; 
Where, in the forest depth profound, 
The feathered choir makes joyous 

sound, 
And verdure-covered mountains rise 
As though they sought to kiss the 

skies, 
The sunlight gleaming on each crest, 
Here lay me down to rest. 



When weary with traversing heights 
Where heroes fell, and viewing sites 
Where splendor, in the ages past 
Had reared her structures tall and 

vast, 
Here let kind mother earth bequeath 
To me a lonely grave beneath 
Her grassy surface, I request, 
To lay me down to rest. 



To Miss W. 113 

I know ambition, hope and strength 
Will wither and decay, at length; 
Forgetfulness will cast its spell 
Where freshest fruits of memory 

dwell ; 
Life, too, shall soon refuse to stay. 
And, as the glowing orb of day 
Some evening sinks behind the west, 
Here lay me down to rest. 



TO MISS W.— 

Adieu! if fulness of the heart 
Constrain to speak, it, too, makes 
dumb. 

Lone, heart-sick, anguished thus to 
part, 

All speechless has thissoul become f 

8 



114 That Fateful Hour Has Come. 

Sweet hope, alas ! foredoomed to die, 
Since I it was whose heart it 
swelled, 
I bid farewell, and oh ! that I 

Should live to see my heaven so 
helled! 



ALAS ! THAT FATEFUL HOUR 
HAS COMB. 

Alas ! that fateful hour has come 
And frenzied nature's heart grows 

dumb! 
You go ! that momentary beam 
I saw from heavenly portals gleam, 
As though some pitying angel stood 
Awhile and let the golden flood 
Within, so comfortingly bright, 
A moment touch on mortal sight, 
At last is shut within its walls, 
And sorrow's night, supplanting, falls. 



That Fateful Hour Has Come. 115 

IIow deep that night! no lonely star! 
No thought to temper what we are ! 
You go ! and all the perfect grace, 
The happy heart, the smiling face, 
The soul that blent with earnest eye 
Description's efforts to defy, 
The nameless winning of the whole 
That woke my latent fire of soul — 
All, all, since my unhappy lot 
They cannot bless, must be forgot ! 
My friend, — alas ! how feebly tame 
The very accents of that name! — 
My friend, when first we met, did I 
Not this sad fate then prophesy? 
Did I not say, when Love and Hope, 
Just born, surveyed their horoscope, 
That such, since nature's blandest 

smiles 
To me were e'er but Siren wiles, 
Must be, by heaven's— or hell's— stem 

laws. 



116 To Little May. 

The destined ending of my cause? 
When raonarchs sink, when paupers 

sleep, 
When death-dews o'er the tyrant 

creep, 
Some friendly tear will always start, 
But, ah! none mourn the expiring 

heart ! 



TO LITTLE MAY. 

In the hush of mystery 
Of a future history 
Who has never, anxious, watched an 
epoch's dawning day? 
So beneath thy horoscope, 
Anxious with a morrow's hope, 
Stand we, trusting that December 
ne'er shall cloud the sky of May. 

THE END, 



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